Counting Stars
by Taywen
Summary: Or, Five Relationships the Piper Had and One That He Didn't. Angst because I like my Architect family extra screwed up! Gen for the most part, with a smidgen of Saturday/the Piper.


Disclaimer: The Keys to the Kingdom series does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Garth Nix, etc.

Fic and section titles from _Counting Stars _by OneRepublic.

Pietro is the name I've arbitrarily decided upon for the Piper!

* * *

Counting Stars (Five Relationships the Piper Had and One That He Didn't)

* * *

_mortals say your life flashes before your eyes when you die; he's not dying, surely, but-_

**one** (old, but i'm not that old)

"Sunday!" Pietro calls, running up the last few steps to the terrace. His legs are burning from all these stairs, but he ignores it. It's his birthday, he's turning seven, and everyone has to be nice to him today, Dad said so.

(He'd been looking pointedly at Mother when he'd said that, but Pietro had ignored it, too happy to let their constant fighting ruin his mood.)

"Brother," his oldest brother says, sighs really. He sets aside whatever he's working on - paperwork or something equally boring involving gardening, how Sunday can stand to fiddle around with plants is beyond Pietro - and turns to give his youngest brother his full attention. "Should you be running around like this?"

Pietro pouts and hops onto one of the benches set at the edge of the terrace. He's a long way up, and he can see so much of the Gardens from here. "Like you were never seven," he says, sulkily.

Sunday sighs; Pietro imagines he's rolling his eyes, but he doesn't want to look. Distressingly, he feels his eyes prickling, and he deliberately doesn't glance over when Sunday sits down beside him.

"I suppose I was, two thousand years ago," Sunday says, like Pietro needs a reminder that Sunday is _really old_ (but a lot of the Denizens are older than him, still) even if he looks like he's in his thirties. "And aren't you still six?"

Pietro scowls down at the Gardens, squinting his eyes like that'll stop his tears from trickling down his cheeks. Dad and Mother probably haven't even noticed he was gone yet, too engrossed in their latest argument to see him slip away.

"Ah," Sunday says, half-reaching for Pietro before he draws his hand back. He's such a stupid brother, but at least, Pietro thinks, at least he's actually _here_. "It's your birthday, isn't it?" He ruffles Pietro's hair a bit too hard, and Pietro jerks away, annoyed.

"It's lucky you're good with plants," Pietro mutters, dashing the edge of one sleeve across his eyes. "Because actual people are beyond you." It's something he'd over heard Tom saying to him angrily a while ago.

Sunday looks amused instead of furious like when Tom had said it. "I wasn't aware people were my responsibility," he says, ignoring the blank look Pietro sends him. "Well, it's not every day you turn seven. Why don't you wait for me on the first terrace, and I'll take you wherever you want to go as soon as I'm done with this."

Pietro looks at him narrowly, gauging his sincerity. "OK, fine. But don't forget!" he says, poking Sunday in the chest.

Sunday still looks so amused. "Of course I won't," he promises.

It's hardly the first promise he's broken and it certainly won't be the last, but Pietro still waits for _hours_ before he realizes that Sunday really has forgotten.

_was this Sunday's doing-_

**two** (young but i'm not that bold)

"Happy birthday, brother," Tom says, holding out a wrapped bundle.

Pietro makes no move to take it. "My birthday was two weeks ago," he says.

Tom's expression goes blank, the way it always seems to do whenever he's around Sunday or their parents; it's nice to know that Pietro's part of the family too, he thinks, not without bitterness. "I'm sorry," Tom says. "Time moves differently-"

"-yeah, I know," Pietro interrupts, annoyed. Tom has the unique ability to make Pietro feel like crap when he's not even the one at fault. One day, Pietro's going to figure out how to use that talent for himself, then _everyone_ will be sorry. He takes the gift because he's as selfish as any of them but he doesn't open it immediately. "Do you even know what birthday it is?"

Tom is tellingly silent. Then, uncertainly, he offers, "Seventeen?"

"Wow, lucky guess," Pietro says drily.

Tom sighs. "Look, I know things have been strained-"

"-understatement," Pietro mutters; the Architect's household alternates between stifling, icy silence and furious shouting these days. He's just waiting for one of them to say or do something unforgivable; it's a question of when, not if.

"-but if you ever want to leave the House or something, just ask," Tom finishes.

"Would I have to call you 'Captain'?" Pietro asks, half-sarcastic.

"I can't imagine you doing it," Tom says frankly, and Pietro laughs for what feels like the first time in forever.

"At least you got me a gift," he says, tucking the bundle into his pocket. "Saturday's the only one who remembered."

Tom winces. "Pietro..."

"I get it," Pietro says dismissively. "You and Sunday have your own things. It's not your jobs to take care of me." He shrugs with a practiced nonchalance that is second nature by now. "I'm practically old enough to do that myself now."

Tom gives him a faint, unconvincing smile. "The offer still stands."

Pietro waves him off. "I'm good. I'm sure you've got pirating or whatever it is you do on that boat."

"I'm not a pirate and _she_ is a _ship_," Tom says, offended.

Pietro smirks. "Whatever. You should probably get going before you get dragged into another fight."

Tom glances around, as if expecting their parents to appear out of the foliage and start a shouting match right then and there.

The one he really needs to watch out for is Sunday, who more or less runs the Incomparable Gardens now. The Old One is too busy watching mortals in the Seven Dials, and who knows where the Architect goes.

"I'll be off, then," Tom says, not without awkwardness.

Pietro stays silent, wondering how long Tom will stay, waiting for a reply, before he gets fed up.

After about a minute of staring, Tom huffs a bit, obviously annoyed, and stalks back to his ship.

_where was Tom when he needed his older brother most (gone like always)_

**three** (and i don't think the world is sold)

She probably had another name, once, but Pietro has always known the sorceror as Saturday. She always calls him Pietro, never 'brother' or 'son' (for obvious reasons) or some variation on 'the son of the Architect' (as most of the Denizens tend to do).

It's nice to be acknowledged for who he is, not who he's associated with. And she always takes his side when he rants about Sunday, who, if possible, seems to become more insufferable with each inexorable year that passes. The other Denizens are too wary or respectful of Pietro's oldest brother to complain.

"-and he only ever calls me Pietro when he wants something from me," Pietro seethes, pacing back and forth in front of Saturday's desk. Her office on the topmost floor of the tower always seems cold. "If he wants a gift from Mother, maybe he should just swallow his pride and ask!" His fingers are clenched tightly around the pipes the Architect had recently gifted him.

Saturday smiles, mirthless. "As if Sunday would ever stoop to such a thing," she says drily.

Pietro scoffs, throwing himself moodily into the single chair before her desk. "Exactly."

"Perhaps," Saturday muses, breaking the comfortable silence, "you should start calling yourself the Piper."

Pietro straightens, something in his chest tightening because- because that sounds _right_, it sounds _perfect_. "I- Perhaps I should," he says, off-balance.

"May I see..?" Saturday murmurs, rising. She's so graceful, even doing something so mundane as walking around the desk. Her sorcery is miles ahead of his, delicate and deadly, and she is always so composed. Pietro- the Piper admires that about her; admires everything about her, really.

His breath catches when Saturday kneels before him, her hands cool against his own.

"Be careful," the Piper says, though his voice sounds strange; too high, with an audible tremble. "Mother said- they can only be wielded by me."

"Surely I will be permitted to admire them," Saturday says, her smile small but genuine this time. Her fingers trace over the plain wood, just brushing his own, something reverent in her expression.

"I-" The Piper's voice, much to his embarrassment, cracks.

Saturday's gaze flicks up to meet his, her smile going sly; teasing. She is only ever like this around him; she loathes Sunday, and dislikes Tom. Her respect for the Architect and the Old One prevent her from being so familiar. "Shall I call you the Piper? Do you like that?"

"Yes," the Piper agrees. "Yes, that- it's perfect."

"Perfect," Saturday repeats, pleased. "I'm glad you like it."

A pause, though her fingers are still stroking restlessly over his own. He's holding his breath, waiting, immobile.

"The Piper," she says, slowly, as if tasting the name.

He leans forward to kiss her. There is a moment of hesitation, then a faint exhale - not quite a sigh - and Saturday kisses him back.

_Saturday would- she would do something, he wouldn't languish here forever-_

**four** (i'm just doing what we're told)

His father raves and curses him when the Piper goes to see him, as if it is somehow his son's fault that the Old One is chained to that ridiculous clock. It was _Sunday_ who helped her do it, Sunday and the rest of the Morrow Days, the Piper hadn't _known_-

The Piper runs away, no real destination in mind. The Improbable Stair deposits him on the Elysium, which is deserted apart from the Architect. She is standing at the edge of the hill, staring out over the Incomparable Gardens.

"My son," She acknowledges, turning to face him. Her appearance is unchanged, apart from the obvious absence of Her Keys, handed out to the newly-appointed Trustees. There is nothing about Her that suggests it, but somehow, from Her bearing, perhaps, the Piper realizes She intends to leave.

"Where are you going?" the Piper asks, hating the note of uncertainty in his voice. He isn't a child anymore; hasn't been for centuries, _millennia_.

The Architect's eyes are distant, unfocused even though She is looking upon Her youngest son. "I don't know," She says.

It's stupid to expect his parents to know everything. The Piper has firsthand evidence that his parents are far from infallible, and this latest stunt - chaining the Old One to a clock, of all things! - only cements that.

And yet.

"Can I come with you?" The words slip out of him unbidden, before he realizes what he's saying. He doesn't even really want to go with Her; he has long favoured the Old One, but She is still his mother.

"No, Pietro," the Architect says, too distant to be gentle, yet not cold enough to be harsh.

This indifference, this _apathy_ is somehow worse.

"It's the Piper now," he snaps.

"The Piper," She repeats, though it is obvious from Her tone that She is doing so because She has no memory of hearing his chosen name before than to commit it to memory.

How many times has he told Her that? _How many times_-

"You could at least release Dad," the Piper continues, because he's angry now. "I mean, if you're leaving anyway. He can stay and you can go. It's not like that'll be any different from how it was before."

The Architect studies him in silence, examining him with a detached curiosity the way a human might examine an insect.

_I'm your _son, he wants to scream, but he isn't so far gone. Or perhaps he isn't so delusional to think that it would make a difference. Semantics.

"His prison is eternal," the Architect says carelessly. "I could not release him even if I wanted to."

"What-"

"Be quiet, Pietro, unless you want to suffer the same fate," She adds, turning away. She steps onto the Improbable Stair and is gone before the Piper can react.

_no one will come for him, he realizes; the only ones who will notice his absence will be unable to help him-_

**five** (i feel something so right by doing the wrong thing)

It's not as if the Piper has never slipped into the Secondary Realms before. He likes how the mortals watch him when he plays; it makes him feel wanted, although he would never admit as much to anyone.

Sunday is always busy, though Saturday (in the rare moments she has for the Piper, for she is often occupied with Sunday's duties) tells him that Sunday has little to do with the functioning of the House as a whole. Tom is off who knows where; the Architect is likewise absent and the rest of the Denizens are beneath the Piper's notice.

He brings rats into the House first, on little more than a whim. He does not intend for them to become Raised Rats, but a combination of the House's influence and his own sorcery Raises them anyway. They are useful, too, always available with an interesting tale or scandal. (They always have time for him.) For beings who were not created with a specific purpose in mind, they acclimate to the House with an ease that, privately, the Piper envies.

He is content with his Rats for many years, but one day Saturday says, obviously annoyed by Sunday's latest ridiculous request, "Those _Rats_ are unnatural, always underfoot..."

The expression of distaste on her face makes him flinch.

Saturday is immediately apologetic. "I don't mean I dislike them, Piper, but sometimes they startle me."

The Piper nods, accepting this. He knows that most Denizens find his Rats unnerving.

He brings plague orphans to the House next, wanting only to give them a new life. They adapt with even greater speed than his Rats, who take an immediate liking to their human counterparts. The Denizens don't seem to know what to make of them.

A few months after this, Sunday calls him to the Incomparable Gardens.

"Why did you bring those mortals into the House?" his older brother demands without preamble as soon as the Piper arrives.

"Denizens venture into the Secondary Realms because you do nothing to stop them! They set off this plague, so I thought it fitting that I bring them into the House to spare them," the Piper retorts.

"Pietro-"

"-it's the _Piper_-"

"-the Piper, then," Sunday says, nettled. "There had better not be a Rightful Heir among those children."

"Well, I wouldn't know! The recordkeeping has fallen by the wayside under your administration," the Piper retorts.

Sunday studies him in silence, his stare nearly as remote as the Architect's was the last time She and the Piper had spoken. When he speaks, it is to change the subject: "Do you truly believe they will have a better life here?"

"Of course," the Piper snaps. "Saturday keeps things running here, despite your neglect."

"Saturday..." His brother's gaze turns away, thoughtful. His smile, small and insincere as it is, barely moves the rest of his face. "I see."

_he will have to save himself, for who else will care for his dear mortals if he is not around-_

**&one** (everything that kills me makes me feel alive)

There are not many Raised Rats in the Great Maze, for unlike the Piper's children they are not truly considered inhabitants of the House and as such are not subject to the draft. Still, on the eve of his victory over the Glorious Army of the Architect, one comes to him.

The Piper has been careful; he has not revealed himself to any of his children, content to allow that buffoon Thursday to think that this is merely an exceptionally strong, self-willed Nithling army. However, his Rats have ways of ferreting out information, and they remain loyal.

"Do you know who threw me into Nothing?" the Piper demands, speaking to one who knew what his voice used to sound like- what it _should_ _still_ sound like- for the first time since re-entering the House. Oh, his voice is still smooth and melodious but compared to what he once was-

"We believe it was Superior Saturday, sir," the Rat says.

"_Lies_," the Piper spits furiously, after a moment of stunned silence. "Have you- Do you serve _Sunday_ now, in my absence-"

"Never, sir," the Rat protests, flinching away from his uncharacteristic anger.

The Piper was always patient with his mortals, but he is not what he once was.

"Keep looking," he snaps. "What other news of the House?"

There is a Rightful Heir in the House. Behind his mask, what remains of his face registers shock. That a mere boy should have conquered three Demesnes in less than two years is unthinkable, but his Rats do not lie, unless they have been deliberately misled as they must have been about Saturday.

"A musician?" the Piper repeats, interrupting the Rat's recounting of how this... Arthur Penhaligon gained the Second Key.

"Yes, sir. Some of us on the Border Sea have met him. He seems reasonable, and we have cause to believe that he does not wish to rule the House. It is at the Will's behest that he continues."

The Piper dismisses the Rat, distracted by thoughts of an alliance with this Rightful Heir.

Then Arthur Penhaligon destroys his Nothing Spike and that snake- the mysterious _Will_- spits acid down his throat when the Piper tries to negotiate.

No, the Piper thinks, his fury cutting through the pain of his still-mending throat, no, he will not rely on anyone but _himself_ and those he knows (have no choice but) to be loyal: his Newniths and his Rats and his children.

He will carve out a place for himself in this unforgiving House even if he has to burn the whole place down to do it.

_the boy stands before him armed with relics of his mother and he's-Pietro's- the Piper's- he feels hollowed out in body and mind and especially spirit but he still has so far to go and no child will stand in his way._


End file.
